


a celebration

by Prim_the_Amazing



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Drunkenness, Illustrations, M/M, Worship, badwrong noncon porn, elias bouchard is a Bastard, includes a murder as of chapter 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2020-12-14 08:51:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21013067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/pseuds/Prim_the_Amazing
Summary: Jon is beautiful. It’s easy, to worship him.





	1. ritual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon’s free hand curls around the one Elias is using to hold Jon’s wrist in place, tries to pull it off with enough force that he trembles with the effort. “Let-- let go,” Jon says, and the polite fiction collapses in on itself, abandoned. 
> 
> “We’re going to celebrate in a more traditional way,” he says, not letting go. “Would you like to ask me what that is?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The illustration was done by the incredible [momo!](https://linecrosser.tumblr.com/) Check her stuff out!

Jon is beautiful. Elias isn’t vain enough to have chosen his new Archivist purely based off of looks, but they certainly drew his attention in the first place. He _ wanted _ for Jon to be a good fit for the role, and was very pleased when that turned out to be the case. It’s easy, to worship him. 

“What is it that you wanted, Elias?” he asks, wary, standing in front of his desk. 

Elias smiles. “To celebrate your progress.” 

“My progress? I’m afraid I haven’t made any recent discoveries regarding the Unknowing--” 

“No, Jon. _ Your _progress. You’re growing nicely into what you’re supposed to be.” He stands up from his chair and circles around his desk until it no longer separates them. Jon takes one instinctive step back from him as he approaches, until he remembers his pride and stands firm. 

“What I’m supposed to be?” he asks. His Archivist, eternally curious, always wanting to know more, even the answers to the ugly questions, as if the truth will help him. Elias knew he was the one from the first day. 

His resolve wavers as Elias reaches his personal bubble and then keeps going, casually crossing the distance appropriate for a boss and his employee, acquaintances. His entire being subtly leans back, away from him, and Elias reaches out and curls a hand around Jon’s wrist to keep him where he is. Jon is very, very tense now. 

“The Archivist,” he says simply. “Your abilities have been growing, haven’t they. You’ve noticed.” It is a fact. He knows that Jon has noticed, and he knows that he has promptly buried the worry beneath a dozen other urgent questions and issues, because this is something that he can do nothing about, this is something deeply horrifying to him. His Archivist is _ good _ at denial past all reason, which is perhaps the least appropriate thing about him. But that trait is slowly crumbling away with time and repeated damage. Soon, he will be perfect. 

Jon tries to tug his hand out of Elias’ grip. He doesn’t have to so much as shift his weight. It’s an adorable effort. Jon is a short man who frequently forgets to eat. Elias is six feet tall and enjoys a fine steak. It’s really no competition. 

The uneasiness in Jon’s eyes spark their way to true fear. Elias shivers very slightly with delight. 

“Forgive me if I don’t want to celebrate that with a glass of champagne,” he bites out, words sharp with that fear, retreating behind disdain as is his custom. Elias smiles down at him, fond and warm. Jon tries to pull his hand away again, harder, less subtle. Elias continues not to let it go without strain. The polite fiction that Elias _ isn’t _ restraining him is rapidly dwindling. 

“I’m afraid that I didn’t think to bring champagne, but I do have a bottle of wine here somewhere, if you’d like it.” He imagines it. Jon, soft and hazy and weak on wine. It’s a good image. Such a pity that Jon barely has any memories of being drunk at all, since he graduated from his university. Too dignified for it, and he doesn’t like the sensation of it, of losing control of himself. But he thinks that in this case that Jon would perhaps appreciate it. The dulling of sensations and memory. 

Jon’s free hand curls around the one Elias is using to hold Jon’s wrist in place, tries to pull it off with enough force that he trembles with the effort. “Let-- let go,” Jon says, and the polite fiction collapses in on itself, abandoned. 

“We’re going to celebrate in a more traditional way,” he says, not letting go. “Would you like to ask me what that is?” 

_ “Elias,” _ Jon says. Elias skims the surface of his thoughts. Images of knives and blood. 

“Oh, that’s charming. But no, not quite. I’m more of a hedonist than a masochist. If you ask, you’ll know,” he goads. “Don’t you want to know what’s about to happen to you? Compel me, Jonathan.” 

He does want to compel him, Elias sees. He wants to ask, to know, to make Elias tell him the truth, as if he can use it, can shield himself with it. But the fact that Elias is pushing him to do it is making him hesitate, as if there’s a trap waiting for him. Elias tsks ruefully, and then his other hand closes down on the nape of Jon’s neck, broad and firm. He pulls him in, up, tilting his head back. He leans down and kisses him, long and satisfying. Jon is a warm line pressed unwillingly up against him, and he freezes, his mind going still and blank with shock. Elias savors the taste of him like a fine wine, and then leans back with a smirk. 

“Can you guess now?” 

Jon stares up at him for a long moment, and then he abruptly throws his entire weight away from Elias, desperately trying to get out of his grip. But his hold is firm as iron. Elias doesn’t so much as sway. Jon is still close, with a hand clamped down on the back of his neck and on his wrist. He doesn’t stop struggling to get away, trying to twist away from him. He’s only giving himself bruises. 

“There’s something very religious about sex, to me,” he says. “So I feel like it would be appropriate.” 

That, and he’s wanted to do this since the first time he laid eyes on this man. He’s desired him, and Elias isn’t in the habit of denying himself the things that he desires. And Jon is growing more and more perfect every single day. More the Archivist, more a monster, more what Elias and the Beholding need for him to be. More irresistible. 

_ “No,” _ Jon says. He’s too panicked to come up with a proper argument, anything to actually convince Elias to let him go. Just base instinct, just the fearful _ truth. _Warmth coils in the pit of Elias’ gut. He looks up into Elias’ eyes, the white of his eyes so visible even in the dimly lit room. “Elias, don’t-- don’t do this.” 

He sighs softly with want, with luxurious satisfaction. This is already everything he’d hoped it would be. Closeness, fear. He takes a step backwards without loosening his grip on Jon, forcing him to stumble after him. 

“Why not? What should stop me? _ Morality?” _ He chuckles. He watches memories flit through Jon’s mind. Jurgen Leitner’s blood and brain matter splattered inside of the Archives. Elias informing him that Gertrude Robinson had died in the line of duty. Listening to the tape with Melanie’s shaking breath, sobbing, as he mercilessly branded the truth of her father’s death into her mind. 

“I’ll be uncooperative if you do this,” he says, grasping desperately at the possible avenue of escape. Elias takes a few steps and steadily pushes him into place, so that he’s standing pressed up to the edge of Elias’ desk, length wise. 

“You’ll let the world end?” he asks, amused. “My dear Jonathan, even if you were able to convincingly lie about it, please do remember that I can see what you really think. You’ll do what I need for you to do no matter what.” 

He feels helplessness climbs up Jon’s throat, making his thoughts frizz at the edges with panic, his hands starting to shake. _ Beautiful. _It’s starting to sink in for him that there’s no way out for him in this situation, but through. A fact so horrible that he wants to deny it, ignore it, but how could he, with the matter so pressing and present?

“Elias,” he says, voice going soft with pleading, broken. “Please.” 

The warmth in his gut grows until it feels like he’s swallowed a furnace. He leans in and kisses him with bruising force, letting base want and need take him over, _ indulging _ himself. Jon feels so small and so right in his arms, in his proper place. He lets go of his wrist to tug up his white button up shirt and dark green sweater, his hand settling on the vulnerable warmth of his flesh underneath. He digs his fingers in harshly until Jon inhales sharply with startled pain, and then he slips his tongue in. Oh, it’s good. Warm. Tastes like _ Jon. _

Jon’s fingers clench down on Elias’ suit vest, holding on desperately as he tries to pull away uselessly. Elias is still holding onto the back of his neck. He hopes it bruises, a dark handprint claiming him. His hand up Jon’s shirt slides up and down slowly, appreciating. His ribs are so stark. 

“You’re perfect,” he breathes against Jon’s lips as Jon gasps for breath. He isn’t used to breathing through his nose through a kiss, because he doesn’t like deep kisses. The inexperience is _ endearing. _

His hand on Jon’s neck slides up into his hair, dark and graying and getting too long, and his fingers curl around the strands, close to the roots. A perfect handhold. He pulls Jon’s head back slowly, revealing the brown column of his throat. He puts his mouth to it, tasting the salty sweetness of his skin, feeling his pulse thrum underneath his tongue. 

“Stop it,” Jon says weakly before he’s regained all of his breath. He sounds breathless, like he wants it. Elias can see that he doesn’t, but the sound of his voice makes the heat inside of him spike anyways. He bites down too hard on his throat and Jon makes a strangled sound of pain. He sucks, endeavoring to leave behind a string of bites and hickeys in plain sight on him. Jon struggles weakly against him, and it’s almost indistinguishable from the squirming of someone who is overwhelmed with sensation. It makes his mouth water, want surging inside of his veins. 

“My Archivist,” he says, feeling dark eyed and possessive. He finally lets go of Jon, only to push him onto his back on the desk, a large sturdy thing made of oak. He looks gorgeous sprawled across it, his lips kiss swollen, his throat ravaged, his shirt and hair in disarray, chest desperately rising and falling. Right where he’s supposed to be. How many times has he imagined bending Jon over this desk, making him sit in his lap in his office chair, going to his knees in the space underneath it? But this way is best. He can see it all, this way. 

Elias takes his knees and pulls them open, stand in the space between them. Jon moves to sit up, and he shoves him back firmly with a hand to his chest. 

_ “Stop,” _Jon repeats himself, but this time with force instead of begging, like he can will Elias to do as he pleases. Like a proper Archivist. He shivers with pleasure, smiles with his teeth. 

“You’re not of the Web, you know,” he says, amused. “Why would the Eye help you get away from experiencing something? Something you’ve never been through before? Don’t you want to _ see _ what it’s like?” 

“No,” he says forcefully. 

“Liar,” he says. “You’ve been curious. Well, now you finally get to know.” 

“I don’t want to--” 

He takes a hold of Jon by one of his thighs, pulling it up and yanking him close until he can grind his crotch against Jon’s. Jon yelps. _ Yes, _ something inside of Elias thrums with satisfaction, with desire for more. A very _ human _part of him. 

He reaches down and grabs the hem of Jon’s shirt and sweater, pulling it up, revealing scarred skin, and Jon sputters as it goes over his head, snagging on his glasses and pulling them off on the way. He leaves the whole tangled mess around Jon’s arms, uncaring. It’s not really an effective restraint, but he doesn’t need any. Although Jon _ would _ look lovely in rope. An idea for later. 

Jon gets the shirt off his arms and onto the floor in time to try and stop Elias from undoing his belt, hands closing in desperately around his own. Elias could ignore him and continue, but that sounds annoying, clumsy. He looks at Jon, whose face is very close now, and raises an eyebrow. 

“Elias, don’t,” he says, tense and miserable and desperate. “I-- I’ll give you a handjob.” 

“I appreciate the offer, but no,” he says, amused by the bargaining. 

“I’ll-- suck you off.” It looks like the offer _ pains _ him. 

Elias imagines it. Hands buried in Jon’s hair, thrusting into his open mouth, so warm and perfect, feeling him choke and_ try, _ gently wiping away reflexive tears from his face, being the only one able to speak, to say anything he wanted to with Jon only able to suck his cock. Jon on his knees, as if in worship, barely able to breathe. 

“You drive a hard bargain,” he murmurs, blood heated, skin warm. “But no. That’s not good enough for our god, is it?” 

He watches fear and despair break across Jon’s face, plain to see. He has to kiss him again. Jon doesn’t even try to move away, just sits there like a statue, with his eyes squeezed closed. 

“This is going to go _ much _ better for you if you cooperate, Jon,” he says into the shell of his ear, close close close. “I don’t want to hurt you. Just to be close to you, inside you. Like prayer.” 

Jon hides away from Elias by burying his face in the crook of his neck and shoulder. Elias closes his eyes and takes it in, Jon shaking against him. So much delicious fear. It fills his lungs like an intoxicating perfume. He rubs his hand up and down the small of Jon’s bare back, and he can feel the want to flinch away from it, except that would only press him even closer up against Elias. No getting away from him. No avoiding it. 

He feels the resignation rise up inside of Jon, and it tastes so, so sweet. 

He waits for confirmation, though. He wants Jon’s undeniable surrender to him. Finally, there comes a small nod against his neck. He grins. 

“What was that?” he asks. 

He tastes the bitter hatred that floods Jon’s mouth at that, the way his teeth grit. 

_ “Fine,” _ he says. 

“Fine, what? What do you want for me to do, Jon? Tell me.” 

He’s teasing now, taking more than he needs just because he wants to. And why shouldn’t he? This is a celebration. He should be enjoying himself as much as possible. 

Jon spends a long moment just breathing, nails hatefully digging into Elias’ muscles. And then he sits back enough to look him in the eye. 

“I want for you to fuck me,” he says clearly, a scowl etched onto his face. 

Elias smiles, delighted. “Oh, I do so love it when you’re being commanding, Jonathan.” 

Jon bares his teeth at him. Such a beautiful man. He kisses him, and Jon very deliberately doesn’t take the opportunity to bite him. He hums against his lips, rubbing his hand up and down Jon’s forearm once in reward, a quick condescending headpat for a well behaved pet. But Jon’s much more than a pet. He’s _ holy. _ He just needs to learn to accept that. 

His hands go down to undo Jon’s belt, and though every single muscle in his body goes tense, he doesn’t move to stop him. He unbuckles it, and then pulls the leather out of its loops. He could use it to restrain Jon’s wrists. But that wouldn’t be as fun as fucking Jon with his hands free, nothing stopping him from attacking Elias but the unchangeable knowlege that it wouldn’t go well for him. He tosses the belt onto the floor, undoing his trousers now, as he tastes the inside of Jon’s mouth. Jon doesn’t reciprocate, but Elias doesn’t need for him to do so. He can just take and take and take. 

He lifts Jon up by his arse with one hand, pulling his trousers and pants down with the other, to pool around his feet. He goes to his knees to remove his shoes, his socks, his pants. Jon looks down at him, and Elias looks up with half lidded eyes, feeling so perfectly at home. This is where he’s supposed to be; at his knees, worshipping his perfect Archivist, raising him into his power, doling out all necessary knowledge slowly as he sees fit. He won’t let this one go to seed. Won’t have to get rid of him and start over. 

He kisses Jon’s shin, his knee, the inside of his thigh. Jon’s fingers clench around the edge of the desk with dread, making himself not move away. Elias really can’t resist touching Jon’s cock, with all of that fearful hoping that he won’t, the dread that he will. He’s soft. Elias isn’t insulted. Jon isn’t one to be aroused easily, and being terrified and furious clearly doesn’t do it for him. 

Elias could _ make _ him be hard. He could fill his mind with happy, safe, intimate memories of Georgie Barker, everyone he’s ever been halfway attracted to for fleeting moments, until his body would be convinced that he was somewhere else with someone else, and then he could take Jon down to the root of him and make him come. 

Another time. This is their first time together, and his cock throbs with needy impatience. He _ needs _ to be inside of Jon. 

He gives Jon’s cock a parting kiss, languishes in how much Jon wants to push him away and yet him not doing so, and then he rises back to his feet. Jon completely naked, revealed, himself fully clothed. He grins, takes Jon’s hand and presses his palm up against his crotch for some momentary relief. He groans, and Jon looks away. He can see him try and disconnect himself from the current happenings, to go away to some other place in his head until this is over. 

He chuckles and doesn’t let him. Inserts the way Elias feels in this moment into his head, the hot arousal, the possessive want. Jon flinches away, eyes wide, and Elias pushes him back onto his back on the desk. Undoes his own belt, pulls his hard cock out of his trousers. Reaches into his pocket and tears a packet of lube open with his teeth. 

Something inside of Jon’s mind goes dizzy with relief at the sight of the lube despite himself, and Elias makes a chiding sound at him. 

“Really, Jon? You’re my Archivist. I wouldn’t hurt you like that. Not when you’re cooperating.” 

Jon’s lips go thin as he thinks, against his will, uncontrollable, about what it’d be like if he _ wasn’t _ cooperating. Far more bruises, certainly. That belt, cinched tight around his thin wrists. Elias squeezes the lube out of the packet, thrusts into the grip of his own hand with a soft exhalation of pleasure, slicking up his cock. Jon lies very still, watching him without blinking, and he revels in it. He can feel Jon sizing up his cock, trying to brace himself for how it will feel inside of himself. 

“Are you sure you want this, Jon?” he drawls, unable to resist. “You seem tense.” 

Jon bristles, eyes narrowing. “I’m_ fine.” _

Elias _ could _ make him beg for it. But he decides to go easy on him, this time. He’s so nervous, the poor thing. He reaches out with his lube slick hand, and slips a finger into him. Jon sharply inhales, eyes going wide, spine straight. Elias grabs the underside of his thigh and hoists it up for a better angle, probes deeper. His fingers are thick. Jon’s breath shakes on the way out. He wants to clutch at something, anything, but there’s nothing for him to hold, not even sheets. Elias wonders if he should invite him to his home someday. Hold Jon in his arms as he falls asleep out of exhaustion, watch him more deeply than any other person can watch as the nightmares spool across his mind. 

He inserts another finger, curling it into the tight warmth of Jon until a sound escapes him, against his will. It’s more a faint sound of distress, if anything, but those can sound very similar to sounds of arousal. He grins down at him. “Enjoying yourself?” 

“Nn--_ hah!” _ He strokes his fingers inside of Jon as he speaks, interrupting him. He can see the way his thoughts and composure are unraveling inside of him at the intrusion, the tangible violation. His chest is rising and falling desperately, his hands visibly trembling. 

“You’re beautiful,” he tells him, a fact, overcome for a moment by the vision that is his Archivist taken to pieces on his desk, at his mercy, pinned like a butterfly to a board. 

Jon has nothing to say in response. He continues to finger him, until he’s so overstimulated that he has to bury his hand in his own hair, tugging helplessly, biting down on the other one to try and hold back the noises, to ground himself in pain. He’s too tense to unclench, but Elias doesn’t mind. He wipes his slick hand off on Jon’s thigh, and then grabs him, casually manhandling him, positioning him to his satisfaction until his cock is lined up with Jon’s hole. 

Elias feels almost feverishly hot with excited anticipation, with want. He’s wanted this for so long, and now he’s taking it, and it’s perfect. 

“Ready?” he prompts, like the considerate lover he is. 

“Is this,” Jon gasps, “is this the last time you’re going to do this?” 

There’s strength behind that question, even as his voice wavers. Compulsion. Elias could ride it out, as the beating heart of the institute. He doesn’t want to. He lets it sink into him, and he answers easily, with holy pleasure. “No.” 

A wave of misery crests inside of Jon, and he pushes himself into him in time with it. His eyes close, his mouth falling open, and this is it. This is _ communion. _Tied so close to his Archivist, in fear and cruelty and pleasure and witnessing. 

“God, you’re _ tight,” _ he compliments him, voice low with heated pleasure. He knows that he should stay still for a moment to let Jon, who has stopped breathing, adjust. But he can’t stop his hips from small twitching movements, the wonderful warmth of him wrapped tight around his cock. He groans from deep in his chest, as he watches Jon, exposed and debauched on his desk, looking like he’s been hit by lightning. Filled. 

After a long moment, Jon takes a shuddering breath in. Elias takes that as his signal to go, and begins thrusting in and out of his Archivist. A noise tears out of Jon’s throat, and it could be agony or overstimulated pleasure, they all sound the same, don’t they? He thrusts into Jon again and again, and immerses himself in Jon’s feeling of being filled up too much, too big, too sudden, and gives him the feeling of warmth clenching down on his cock in return. 

Jon says things, during. He says_ no _ and _ stop _ and _ fuck. _ Elias says _ you’re perfect _ and _ beautiful _ and _ mine. _ Jon makes wordless noises, and so does Elias. He braces his legs and _ fucks _ Jon on his desk, and it’s everything he could have ever wanted. He comes inside of him, and it’s bliss. He wraps Jon around in the feeling as he does, shares it, forces him to see every part of this. When he opens his eyes, dazed and satisfied, he looks down at Jon’s hardening cock and grins. 

“See?” he says, teases. “It isn’t so bad, is it?” 

“Elias,” Jon says, fucked stupid, more dazed from Elias’ orgasm than Elias himself. It makes sense. He’s had far more of them than Jon has. He wraps his hand around Jon’s cock, his dick still inside of Jon. He starts stroking slowly, lovingly, luxuriously. 

Eventually, Jon starts twitching, his hands going to Elias’ forearms, his breath shuddering in and out, nails digging into his skin, shaking his head. 

“This is going to feel good,” he tells him. “You don’t get this often, do you? But this is a celebration. You should get something special.” 

“No,” Jon says, but he’s helpless, under Elias’ power in this place. His duty is to _ witness, _ not avoid. Jon closes his eyes and turns his head away, and Elias burns what _ he _ sees into him, Jon naked and hard with Elias’ cock inside of him and hand on his dick, breathing hard. “You-- you _ bastard--” _

Jon comes with a soft, ragged cry, in bittersweet surrender. Elias immerses himself in his forced anguished pleasure and tastes his seed spilled on the back of his hand, pushing the taste onto Jon so that he can feel it on his own tongue. 

“See?” he says. “That was _ lovely.” _

He reaches down and wipes the tears away from his face and kisses him softly, even as Jon tries to lean away, weak with orgasm. He _ likes _ this ritual, he decides. He thinks he knows why it’s so popular in religions throughout the world, now. Such a perfect way to show worship. 

He holds his beautiful Archivist in his arms where he can’t get away, right where he belongs. Trapped, with him. 


	2. office party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon used to pride himself on a neat and professional appearance that he maintained meticulously, but in the last few years that’s started to feel much too petty a matter to waste his time on, what with in office murders and the apocalypse to avert and all. That, and it’s so easy to lose track, honestly. There’s always more work to be done. He’s aware that he looks a bit… scruffier, than before he was promoted. 
> 
> His formerly shaggy hair is cut short and severe, now, however.

Jon sort of forgot that the Archives aren’t the only part of the Magnus Institute. That there’s other departments, other employees, living normal lives unplagued by monsters and the end of the world. It seems ridiculous and unfair. They all work in the same building. They’re such a short distance away. Why do they get to have safe mundanity? 

Jon’s being… unreasonable. He doesn’t want for everyone working for the Institute to be in as dire straits as he and his assistants. He just… it’s strange. That’s all. That, and the fact that he still has to go to the mandatory non denominational holiday (but still undeniably Christmas) office party. 

Tim, who was the life of this party every previous year for as long as Jon has worked here, has clearly chosen to ignore the ‘mandatory’ part and damn the consequences, and is presumably somewhere else, hopefully actually enjoying himself, although Jon somehow doubts it. Melanie is lurking in a corner on her phone, looking highly unwelcoming, Basira reading a book next to her. Martin is standing close enough to Jon that he looks not far off from just outright holding onto his arm like a limpet. 

“Um, I suppose that it’s nice?” Martin says, very uncertainly. Jon can’t help but agree with the unstated sentiment behind the too generous words. It feels strange, in a distinctly unpleasant sort of way, to drink punch and make smalltalk with people like everything is normal. Jon keeps having to stop himself from trying to convince people to quit their jobs and move far, far away from London. 

“Quite,” he settles on, making his intent clear in his tone. He sips his drink, smothering a grimace. Either it’s been too long since he’s had a drink for him to properly compare, or the alcohol is significantly stronger this year. 

“... Your haircut looks nice,” Martin speaks up eventually, as uncomfortable with a tense silence as ever. 

Jon used to pride himself on a neat and professional appearance that he maintained meticulously, but in the last few years that’s started to feel much too petty a matter to waste his time on, what with in office murders and the apocalypse to avert and all. That, and it’s so easy to lose track, honestly. There’s always more work to be done. He’s aware that he looks a bit… scruffier, than before he was promoted. 

His formerly shaggy hair is cut short and severe, now, however. 

“Thank you,” he says shortly, voice going frigid almost against his will. He doesn’t want to talk or think about it. 

“Oh, um,” Martin fumbles, clearly put off guard by receiving such unearned hostility from a simple compliment. “I-- Oh, Hannah’s back from maternity leave, that’s nice. I’ll just, I’ll go and talk to her.” 

“Fine,” he says, very much done with the conversation. Martin leaves with one last reluctant backwards glance that Jon doesn't return, and he’s left with nothing to do but stew in his rising guilt for snapping at him for such a small thing. Martin would have no reason to know-- it’s not his fault. He finishes his drink and bitterly wonders how much time he has to spend at this awful party before he can leave. 

Probably longer than five minutes, he concludes with great dismay. Attending the holiday party isn’t exactly his greatest trial this year, but he definitely isn’t enjoying it. 

He doesn’t even try to speak with any of the other guests. He’ll just get through this. He’ll stand here for one hour and then he’ll leave. He goes and gets his drink refilled. 

Jon… has made a mistake. There wasn’t anything to do but drink. And, he realized far too late, he’d forgotten to eat all day again. And he’s never been good at holding his drink, has avoided it as much as possible after trying it out a couple of times, to be frank, because he doesn’t like the feeling of being drunk, of being hungover. And the drinks are so  _ strong, _ this year. Why are they so strong? 

“All alone, Jon?” Elias asks, and Jon startles so badly he almost drops his glass. He looks at him, wild eyed, his heart racing. The party is loud and bright and warm and close and there are people everywhere. It feels  _ wrong  _ that Elias is here, like a monster out in daylight when it should be creeping in the dark. Elias is smiling at him in a way that makes Jon’s stomach lurch, like he’s on the verge of being sick. “Where are your friends?” 

“Go away,” he says. His own voice sounds strange to his ears. 

Elias makes a tutting noise, gently disapproving. “They shouldn’t have left you alone, when you’re so… undone. Have you had too much to drink, Jon? You should be more careful. It’s improper to get drunk at a work event.” 

He’s standing too close, but everyone’s standing close to each other, to be able to talk over the music and the gentle roar of nearly fifty people holding conversation and laughing all in close quarters. He’s close enough that Jon can smell his musk, which he’s too, too familiar with, which filled his nose and his mouth and sunk into his skin and his hair and his clothes. He wants to leave, but he’s so dizzy that he feels like he’ll fall down if he moves too suddenly. He tries to move away, sways. 

Elias deftly reaches out and _ touches _ him,  _ grabs _ him, firm and strong and steadying him. Jon knows that he won’t be able to get Elias to let go unless Elias wants to, the way he knows how it feels to have worms eat and burrow their way through his flesh, how it feels to have his hand set alight by a lightless flame, how it feels to be sent falling down and down without moving from his chair. Through experience. Through having it burned into his mind. But there isn’t even a scar left behind. The bruises have faded. Like it never happened. Cool air prickles against the back of his bare neck, his shorn hair the only sign. 

“You can’t,” he says. “There’s people, people everywhere.” 

He imagines it, uncontrollably, happening anyways. Elias backing him into a corner and taking whatever he wants in the middle of a crowded room, no one even noticing them, no one caring, no one stopping it. He sways, the room spinning, and now Elias’ hand is on the small of his back as well. He can’t. 

“You’ve clearly overdone it, Jon,” he says sympathetically. “Let me help you get some fresh air.” 

“No,” he says, but it’s too soft. No one notices. Elias gently-firmly-inexorably leads him out of the room, out of the crowd and the overwhelming noise and warmth, into hallways so cold and quiet that they feel surreal after the party. They’re in a room now that he doesn’t recognize, not Elias’ office. He’d thought to himself, promised himself, that he’d never go back there. To his office. Like that would protect him. But all of the Institute is his, isn’t it? And Jon can’t leave. 

Elias idly locks the door behind them with a quiet click. Jon stumbles away, set free, and looks around himself, like there’s going to be another door out of here. There’s boxes and mess and dust and this is a storage room, he thinks dizzily. Could he hide? 

No. It’s a small room and Elias sees everything. Someone makes a distressed noise, and he realizes a moment later that’s it’s him. 

Elias is in front of him again, his arm around Jon’s waist, keeping him close and in place. His other hand cards through his short hair, and he makes a mournful noise. “I’ll miss your long hair. It was a good handhold. That’s why you got rid of it, isn’t it? Such a waste. Martin was right, though. You look good like this as well.” 

Panic and confusion get tangled up inside of his mind. Martin? Why is he talking about Martin? What does he have to do with this? 

Martin had said that his new haircut was nice. Had Elias been watching, even then? Jon hadn’t noticed him. Had been keeping an eye out for him. But Elias doesn’t have to be there to watch Jon whenever he wants to. Whenever he wants to. He shudders, and he wishes he could break away from Elias but instead leans against his chest, because he feels like he’s about to lose his balance and fall. Elias hums, pleased, and he can almost feel it thrum in his chest, he’s pressed up so close. 

“My Archivist,” he says, and Jon flinches. He sounds amused and fond. “I want for you to be what you need to be, but… you’re very endearing, like this. Viscerally honest. I couldn’t help but want to see it for myself, instead of through your hazy memories.” 

The drinks had been so strong. On purpose. On purpose, Elias did this. And Jon drank, like an idiot. Like this is a safe place to be, where he can get drunk. Elias chuckles warmly, and holds him out but still close. The distance he likes to take Jon’s clothes off, he knows. He shouldn’t know that but he does and dives back into Elias’ arms, presses up close into him because he knows he can’t go the other way. If he just hides here, too close, then maybe he’ll be safe, he reasons desperately. 

“Adorable,” Elias sighs, like he’s savoring a delicacy. And then he pulls Jon back for a kiss. He manhandles him, holding on firmly to the back of his neck, because his hair isn’t a good handhold any longer. His tongue is too warm and he can’t breathe and he can taste alcohol and Elias and they mix and Elias doesn’t  _ stop, _ even as Jon tries to push him away. He just keeps going, taking and tasting as much as he wants, while Jon grows increasingly lightheaded and weak in the knees. When he finally parts from the kiss, Jon gasps desperately for air by Elias’ collarbone, his chin tucked down as if it’ll protect him from more kisses. Hiding. His eyes sting hotly. 

“Here, have some more,” Elias says, and then he’s got his hand on Jon’s chin, is turning it up and there’s cold at his lips and it’s the brim of a glass. Elias pours more alcohol into his mouth and it’s unexpected. He coughs and it pours down his chin and onto his shirt but Elias doesn’t stop until he swallows some. He coughs painfully, his throat burning, weak, only standing because of Elias. 

He hadn’t even noticed Elias bringing the glass. He doesn’t want to drink more. If he does, he _ will _ be sick and he doesn’t want to be sick. He’s already so dizzy, so confused, so warm. His clothes are stifling, too much. He can’t let his clothes come off. 

“More,” Elias says. “Come on, you’ve almost finished your glass.” 

“No,” he says, his voice a weak whine, trying to turn away. 

“You can do this,” he says confidently. “Just finish this glass, Jon.” 

He just has to finish this glass. He takes a deep breath, and tilts his head up as Elias puts the glass to his mouth. He doesn’t want to choke on it again. He swallows and swallows, and it’s bitter and too much and it’s finally over. He drank all of it. 

“Good job,” he praises him, fondly patting his thigh as Jon half collapses, half sits down on a box. “I knew you could do it. I’m proud of you, my dear.” 

Georgie had called him dear, sometimes. For some reason, that’s what does it. Thinking about her now, when this is happening. A sob scrapes out of him painfully, and there’s hot tears on his face now. His chest aches like it’s hollow, like there’s shards of glass deep inside of it. He’d been safe, with her, back then. Safe and confident. How did he get from there to now? 

Elias makes a breathless appreciative noise. “You’re  _ so good _ like this, Jon. So honest. Defenseless.” 

Jon can’t make his breathing stop shuddering. Each breath feels like a desperate effort. Elias gets close into his space again, wipes the tears away from his face, intimate. More tears replace them immediately. He can’t  _ stop.  _

“Get on your knees,” Elias says softly, “and I’ll let you go back to the party, alright? Get on your knees and pray.” 

Jon doesn’t move. Elias takes him and pulls him off the box, lets him crumple down to his knees in front of him, clumsy and weak. Everything’s happening too quickly, his mind lagging three steps behind. 

Elias moves him by grabbing him by the side of his face again, because his hair isn’t long enough. It didn’t help at all, cutting it. His thumb caresses his lower lip, then slips inside his mouth, between his teeth, holding his tongue down. Elias has clean hands, and Jon hates the taste of them. He pulls Jon’s mouth open and pushes his cock past his lips, prying his teeth apart so that they won’t scrape against the soft skin of his dick. He lets loose a low, satisfied groan as he steadily shoves his dick inside of Jon’s mouth, and Jon-- Jon starts to panic. 

His eyes are still hot, tears streaming down his face, and his mouth is too full, forced open by Elias’ hand, and he feels like the world is spinning even as he’s on his knees and he can’t  _ breathe. _ Elias gives a shallow thrust into his mouth and gives a soft huff of a laugh from pleasure, run his fingers through Jon’s short hair like an approving pet. Jon holds onto Elias’ hips as hard as he can, as if he can just hold on hard enough then he won’t-- he doesn’t know. 

Elias thrusts again, and Jon chokes. Elias doesn’t let him pull away, doesn’t let his mouth close, just thrusts again and again. He makes a sound from deep in his chest, low and raw with pleasure. “You’re perfect like this,” he murmurs. “Worshipping and afraid. We simply  _ must _ do this again.” 

It’s all happening again. He’d been so determined not to let it happen again, to not be alone with him, to not let him come close enough. But he was stupid and he drank and now he’s slow and clumsy and stupid and Elias got him here on his knees so  _ easily.  _ His jaw aches and he can barely breathe. His knees ache. His fingers hurt, from where he’s digging them into Elias’ thrusting hips as hard as he can. The taste of him is  _ overwhelming, _ human skin and salty bitter precum and too much in his mouth moving down towards his throat, back and forth, his thumb wedged in between his teeth. Alien, invasive, violating. 

Elias is making small sounds of overwhelmed pleasure at every exhale, puffs of air,  _ ha, ha, _ going faster, harder-- 

He grabs Jon hard enough to bruise, and comes into his mouth, shivering and still. He finally slips out, let’s Jon’s mouth close, and then presses his palm over his closed mouth. 

“Swallow,” he orders. 

Jon swallows. It hurts on the way down, like trying to drink water with a sore throat. Bile burns in the back of his throat, acidic. Just closing his eyes with exertion makes more tears spill out. Elias sighs with satisfaction and kneels down to face him. 

“You’re beautiful, dear,” he says, and gives Jon a light kiss on the lips. 

_ Don’t call me that, _ he wants to say, but he feels a million miles away from his body. His mind hazy and shocked, the taste of Elias lingering on his tongue. 

“Why not?” Elias asks, because not even his mind gets to be all his own. 

“... ‘s Georgie’s” he says, his voice a belated, weak slur. 

Elias chuckles. “My apologies. How about beloved?” 

He tries to pull away. This time, Elias lets him. He feels like he can breathe for the first time since he got down on his knees, but he still feels dizzy and sick. He’s going to vomit. He doesn’t want to vomit in front of Elias. He swallows it back harshly, fingers digging into his own thighs. 

“Well, this was lovely, but I really should be going. The party will be missing me. Will I be seeing you there, Jon?” 

He doesn’t say anything, jaw clenched tightly shut. Elias shrugs, smiles, and leaves the room. Jon clumsily wipes the tears away from his face. Hiccups, swallows back bile. 

He hates being drunk. 


	3. a revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know, I really should have gone for that. Found something that would finally manage to shatter that precious image you have of him.” Elias pauses, as if something’s just occurred to him. Slowly, he smiles, in an expression that means nothing good for Martin. His stomach twists as he braces himself for whatever horrible thing is about to be pushed into his mind. “... And I have just the thing.”

“It’s baffling, really. Such loyalty to someone who really treats you very badly,” Elias says. The scent of burned paper hangs heavy in the air. 

“Oh, is that supposed to be, what, a revelation?” Martin spits. 

“You know, I really should have gone for that. Found something that would finally manage to shatter that precious image you have of him.” Elias pauses, as if something’s just occurred to him. Slowly, he smiles, in an expression that means nothing good for Martin. His stomach twists as he braces himself for whatever horrible thing is about to be pushed into his mind. “... And I have just the thing.” 

It’s like having intrusive thoughts, if intrusive thoughts took over all of your senses as well, realer than reality. He sees Jon. Jon, with wide, scared eyes, like he’s never seen before. He’s seen Jon scared before. But never of him. 

“You’ve noticed that Jon’s seemed more tired lately. More stressed, tenser. But that only makes sense, doesn’t it? The world is ending.” 

Jon, standing too close to him, but trying and failing to get away. 

“He doesn’t like to tell people when he’s hurt. It makes him feel even weaker. And what could you do to help and fix it, Martin? What could you possibly have done to stop it from happening? He was just saving you from needlessly worrying about something that you could do nothing to stop. Saving himself from the humiliation of having his weakest moments known.” 

Jon, splayed out on a broad, sturdy desk. 

“He looks good, doesn’t he?” 

Jon, on his knees. 

“Absolutely delectable, where he is.” 

Jon, on his lap. 

“Precious.”

Jon, panting, crying, begging, sobbing. 

“Perfect.” 

Drunk and confused, awake and alert, fighting back fiercely, numbly cooperating to make it hurt less, tearstained. 

“Admit it. You  _ like _ this. You’ve always wanted to see him like this, haven’t you? Now, you finally get to. This is admittedly the only way you possibly could, so you should be grateful.” 

With a cock inside of him. 

_ “Stop it,”  _ Martin hisses. 

“Elias,” the Jon in his head says, voice breaking. “Stop it.” 

Something inside of his head goes cold and clear as ice once it sinks in that this isn’t something that’s happened in Jon’s past, isn’t some fakery that Elias has conjured up to mess with his head. These memories are _ real  _ and they happened, have _ been  _ happening, right underneath Martin’s nose as Jon has been growing more quiet and exhausted right in front of him. 

Elias did this to Jon. 

“I do hope that you’ve learned something--” 

Elias is a mindreader. It’s hopeless to try and murder him. Unless, of course, it happens impulsively, thoughtlessly. Martin is almost as surprised as Elias himself when he surges forward and decks him so hard that something in his hand breaks and Elias goes crashing to the floor. Blankly, he stares at Elias’ downed figure as he starts to slowly sit up, looking very dazed. 

The door flies open, Melanie looking concerned and furious. “What was that-- oh wow.” She sounds almost as impressed as she does shocked. “Didn’t think that you had it in you--” 

Martin kicks Elias in the head as hard as he can, before he can get his bearings about him. His hand throbs with agony, but he’s too furious to let it bother him. So furious that he almost feels detached from himself. (Jon,  _ crying.)  _

“Jesus!” Melanie shouts. “I thought the plan was to get him arrested!” 

“You’re right,” he says, and his voice sounds distant. “He probably is just bluffing. About the heart of the institute. I think we should kill him.” 

Melanie looks at him. Down at Elias. Back at him. (“Elias, stop it.”) Martin fights back the urge to rip Elias’ cock off, which would probably make him look more than a bit unhinged. And then she smiles humorlessly and pulls a rather sharp looking knife out of her pocket. 

“You’re not so bad, Blackwood.” 

When Elias dies, they don’t. Melanie smiles, vindicated, and Martin doesn’t smile at all. He still has those memories, fresh and burned into his mind. They hide his body in the tunnels. It’s more than he deserves. 


	4. a total accident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon has several burns from standing so close to an explosion, as well as a concussion and some bruised ribs. He stays overnight for observation, gets some bandages and a couple of different sorts of scans, and a prescription for pain relief medication and burn ointment. There’s really nothing to do but to go home after that, even though Tim and Daisy are dead. Tim is dead. 
> 
> Jon goes to the Magnus Institute instead. He has to see if the plan worked, if Martin and Melanie are alright, and he can’t just call them. His phone broke, during the whole… thing. Hardly the worst loss. 

Basira quite literally stumbles across Jon and drags him with her out of the Unknowing, step by laborious step, on and on until they can remember their own names. 

Daisy and Tim don’t come out after them. 

Jon has several burns from standing so close to an explosion, as well as a concussion and some bruised ribs. He stays overnight for observation, gets some bandages and a couple of different sorts of scans, and a prescription for pain relief medication and burn ointment. There’s really nothing to do but to go home after that, even though Tim and Daisy are dead. Tim is dead. 

Jon goes to the Magnus Institute instead. He has to see if the plan worked, if Martin and Melanie are alright, and he can’t just call them. His phone broke, during the whole… thing. Hardly the worst loss. 

There’s a part of him (a large part of him) that doesn’t want to go there. Not when he’s hurt, not when he still gets dizzy if he moves his head too quickly. Elias could dig his fingers into Jon’s wounds and  _ make _ him comply, make him sit or lie as still as possible to avoid the pain of moving, and be moved anyways as Elias thrusts-- 

He makes himself stop thinking about it. Takes deep breaths until he feels steady again. It’s harder not to think about things like that right now, with his head like this. Harder to repress and compartmentalize. 

He walks off the tube and towards the Institute anyways, because he always has to come back, and he  _ has _ to see if Martin is alright. And Melanie, of course. (Tim is dead. Has anyone told them yet? Will Jon have to?) 

The first thing he notices as he walks into the Archives is that Martin has a blue cast on his hand. 

“Martin!” he sounds perhaps a bit too alarmed for someone much more significantly injured, and with some of Tim’s blood still spattered on his shirt, he’s pretty sure, but getting hurt had  _ not _ been part of the plan for Martin. Something had gone  _ wrong--  _

For a moment, Martin’s expression is… hollow. And then he smiles with relief at Jon. Jon stops in his tracks, disconcerted. 

“Jon,” Martin says, a little bit shaky but with feeling laced through the name. His name sounds just the way it always has from Martin’s mouth. A frown crumples the smile. “Shouldn’t you still be at the hospital? I heard you were--” 

“Nevermind that,” he snaps. “What happened to your  _ hand?”  _

Martin looks at said hand as if someone has snuck the blue cast on it while he wasn’t paying attention. “Oh,” he says. “Um, yeah. Elias… broke it.” 

Jon sucks in a sharp breath, has to brace himself on Martin’s desk. 

“But don’t worry! The plan worked! … More or less.” 

“More or less?” he asks faintly. “Which is it, Martin? God, did he do anything else to you?” 

Did he do anything else to him. Jon realizes that his hands are on Martin now, all of a sudden. Uselessly patting over his arms like he’s a TSA agent checking him for contraband, hovering over his collar bone, gripping at his shoulders. He makes himself stop touching him, makes his hands returns to his sides. Can’t make them stay there, wrings them in front of himself instead.  _ Did he do anything else _ keeps looping over and over inside of his head. 

Jon hates letting his assistants interact with Elias in any capacity. It just isn’t safe. It just isn’t a good idea. It just isn’t necessary. He’d hated the idea of this plan from the start. 

He wishes that he could read Martin’s expression, but he’s never been good at that sort of thing. Martin’s just looks so  _ flat _ all of a sudden, for some reason. Utterly unreadable. His heart is beating so fast inside of his chest that it hurts. 

But again, Martin smiles, soft and tired and reassuring and utterly Martin. 

“No, he didn’t do anything else. He got… angrier at the distraction, than I’d predicted. Sort of like how he snapped with Leitner. He just… attacked. But I was okay. It went okay.” 

“Leitner got beaten to a bloody pulp with a pipe,” he says, aghast at the comparison. He can’t believe that he didn’t consider Elias’ violent temper. He had seen Leitner’s fresh corpse with his own eyes, for god’s sake. It was just… so easy to forget that Elias is violent in so many ways. Not just in the smug, smirking, intimate way that he’s so personally familiar with. 

“Well, he didn’t have a pipe on hand,” Martin says practically. “And I’m, um, pretty big. So… I overpowered him.” 

Jon blinks. “You did?” 

Martin _ is _ a large man. Not the sort of person that works out, but the sort that doesn’t  _ need _ to do so to be able to lift rather heavy things with little to no effort. 

“I did,” Martin says, like it’s that simple. 

“The tape,” Jon realizes. 

“What?” 

“The tape. You were being recorded at the time, weren’t you?” 

“How did you know that?” Martin’s face is back to being unreadable. Jon’s head hurts. He squeezes his eyes shut, withstanding the migraine, and by the time he opens them again Martin looks mildly curious. 

“I, I just did. What you did was… important. It was important, so it must have been recorded. Right?” 

“Important things can happen without being recorded. Right?” he sounds a little bit uncertain at that last word. 

Jon has never found a tape that’s nothing but the sound of Elias smug and purring, his own shaky breathing, the rustle of clothes being removed. Thank god for that. Thank god, thank god, thank god. 

“I don’t know,” he says. Just because it was important to him doesn’t mean that what happened was _ important. _ “Not anything important inside of the Institute at the very least, I suspect.” 

For some reason, Martin takes his hand. Jon looks down at his unbroken hand wrapped around Jon’s scarred one, not knowing why he’s done so, and too tired to even try and puzzle it out. He looks blankly up at Martin. Martin smiles wanly. 

“Sorry just… thinking about Tim. That’s all.” 

“Oh,” he says. So someone has already told Martin about that, then. He squeezes Martin’s hand back once, a weak, not-good-enough gesture. He doesn’t know what to say except _ I know it’s my fault, I’m sorry.  _

Some things are so obvious that they don’t need saying. 

“I don’t think that the tapes catch everything important,” Martin says. Jon’s mind spins a bit at the abrupt change in topic. “Not even in here. Whatever controls them… their priorities aren’t objective. That’s what I think.” 

He says it so firmly, like he’s willing the fact into existence. 

“... Alright,” he says. He’s so tired. He looks again at Martin’s hand in a cast, and he remembers what’s actually important, instead of what feels important. “Where is the tape of your-- altercation, with Elias?” 

“We broke it while we were fighting,” Martin says evenly, steadily looking Jon right in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Jon.” 

“Oh,” he says, his shoulders slumping. He would have liked to have listened to it. He would have liked to know for sure that nothing worse than a broken hand happened to Martin. He would have liked to listen to every single second of audio just to reassure himself over and over that it could have been much, much worse, and that much worse thing didn’t happen, did it? 

_ Martin’s  _ alive. Martin’s alive. Martin’s alive, and the worst thing that Elias did to him was a broken hand. That’s all. That’s all. Calm down. 

He realizes that Martin is still holding his hand, that Jon is holding onto it far too tightly. He forces himself to loosen his hold, but after a moment of hesitation he doesn’t pull his hand away from Martin’s. If Martin needs to hold his hand right now then… then that’s the least of what he can do for him, after everything. 

Martin rubs his thumb into the back of Jon’s hand in a soothing little circle, over and over again, like he’s comforting Jon and not the other way around. 

“The plan went well, with just that little hiccup,” Martin says. “It’s okay, Jon.” 

“So he’s in prison, then,” he says. That is what the plan was. He tries to embrace that thought, after having repressed it so much for fear of Elias catching wind of it. Elias is in jail now. Far, far away from Jon, from his assistants. Far away. 

It feels surreal, more than anything. Maybe it'll sink in later in a few hours... days... weeks. Eventually, he hopes. 

_ “... Well,”  _ Martin says, high pitched and awkward. Like when Jon confronted him about the dog he snuck into the Archives, or some other thing that he knows that he wasn’t really  _ allowed  _ to do, but did anyways in the hopes that it would go unnoticed. 

Jon furrows his brow as anxiety spikes inside of his chest again. “Martin,” he says, suspicious. “Where is Elias? And where’s  _ Melanie?”  _

“Ah… out celebrating. Getting drunk, she said. So, listen, it was a total accident…” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIN


End file.
